


To Protect

by Lord_Twinkle



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Twinkle/pseuds/Lord_Twinkle
Summary: A series of short scenes between Lancelot and Gawain. Based on a prayer I wrote for Lancelot, which will serve as first chapter.Lancelot does his best to take care of Gawain.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	1. A Prayer from Lancelot to the Almighty

_ Lord, _

_ Please, let him be soft. _

_ I know you have made him of metal and thorn. I know you have made him to be a warrior, a soldier, a hero. But, even the metal of our swords rusts and warps, even the thorn is intended to wilt. I do not want to see him break. I will not let him. _

_ Merciful Father, _

_ Let him not go up in flames the way all heroes are destined to be martyrs. I know that the world needs him. The world needs his kind heart, and his courage, and his strength. _

_ And his blood and his teeth and his bones and his voice and his soul. _

_ The world needs too much out of him. _

_ Damn the world! _

_ And damn you too! _

_ Damn anyone who ever asked anything of him. Damn everyone who ever took anything from him. Including me. Damn anyone who ever prayed to whatever deity with his name on their lips.  _

_ You know that he will give them everything until there is nothing left of him, but the feel of his hand on my shoulder. You know that he will bear the world on his shoulders until he collapses and he is crushed by all of it. _

_ Why him? _

_ Dear God, _

_ You have already had Samson. _

_ You have already had David. _

_ You have already sacrificed your own Son. _

_ You have already made so many heroes and you can make so many others again. _

_ So, please, I beg of you - he is all that I have. The world will have other heroes. Let this one be soft. Let him be mine. _


	2. Metal and Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain needs a hug

_ Lord, _

_ Please, let him be soft. _

_ I know you have made him of metal and thorn. I know you have made him to be a warrior, a soldier, a hero. But, even the metal of our swords rusts and warps, even the thorn is intended to wilt. I do not want to see him break. I will not let him. _

///

Gawain is the protector. He is the guardian.

He is the one who gives freely: be it a soft place to land, a confidant, a shield to place in front of anyone who cannot defend themself. He has been this way all his life

But Lancelot is quiet and observant. Better at reading people’s emotions and the thoughts behind them than you would think. The knight has given beyond everything he ever had. And he has never left himself be the one who was protected. He doesn’t know how.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel safe with Lancelot, as the man thinks at first. But if he falls? Who will be left to guard them? He can’t put that on Lancelot. The Ashman has been through enough. He deserves to experience a gentle life, deserves to experience the freedom that has been so hard to earn. No, he does not doubt Lancelot’s abilities. It’s simply that there is this lingering knot of panic in his chest and if he could just clear his head, everything would be fine.

But Lancelot sees it. It isn’t fine.

It comes in the dead of the night. Gawain coming back from yet another emergency war council, smiling his tired smile, asking if Lancelot is alright, and exhaustion plain for anyone to see.

Lancelot reaches out and hugs him. Gawain mechanically brings his arms up to hold him back, the way he always does. “No”, says Lancelot. He wants to hold Gawain so that he feels  **_held_ ** . He is careful, treating the body of his exhausted lover like the most precious thing, one hand softly tangling with the hair on the nape of his neck. “Feel it”, he orders.

For what seems like a millennia, Gawain is tense in his arms, as though he isn’t sure what’s happening to him. Waits for it to be over. But Lancelot starts softly humming a song his mother used to sing, and he doesn’t pull away. He holds him closer than should be physically possible. And the tension starts rising in Gawain, struggling to regain control. His heart beats so fast and he can’t seem to get his breathing to even out. Something in Gawain crumples up and breaks in half, like crisp pine needles in autumn.

He clings to Lancelot, gasping for breath. Burying his face inside Lancelot’s shoulder. The Ashman holds on, pressing his hand harder against Gawain’s neck, sheltering him in the cradle of his arms. Gawain is now trembling and clinging to that cloak he hates so much because it hides his lover’s beautiful face, pulling him even closer, there is no space left, but Gawain would crawl inside the other man’s rib cage if he could.

“I’m sorry”, he keeps on repeating, tears rolling down his face, “there isn’t even anything wrong.”

“It’s ok”, Lancelot breathes in his ear, “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.”

Gawain slumps into the hold, the remaining tension finally breaking away from him.

“You shouldn’t have to. It’s not the way it should be. You are not my keeper”, he articulates slowly.

Lancelot presses a tender kiss on his cheek. “But I want to be. Will you permit me?”

He breathes him in for a long time before answering: “Alright”. He turns soft and heavy between Lancelot’s arms, letting him take care of him.

Lancelot holds him for a long time and Gawain lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	3. All heroes are destined to be martyrs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot coaxes Gawain into sleeping. The much needed rest devolves into a nightmare.

_ Merciful Father, _

_ Let him not go up in flames the way all heroes are destined to be martyrs. I know that the world needs him. The world needs his kind heart, and his courage, and his strength. _

_ And his blood and his teeth and his bones and his voice and his soul. _

_ The world needs too much out of him. _

_ *** _

Lancelot sees him, sitting at his desk, looking over reports from scouts, the council, and checking his maps over and over again. The man hides it well, but Lancelot knows better. He can see the dark circles under his eyes, the teeth marks on his lips where he has been worrying.

“Lancelot,” he said without raising his head from his work, “Please stop staring. I can feel your eyes burning a whole in the back of my head.”

“You need to sleep,” he deposited a small cup next to his lover.

His nose curled: “What is that?”

“Camomille.”

The man sighed deeply: “There is still much to do and -”

“You will be of no use to anyone if you fall asleep holding up your sword.”

Gawain slumped on the back of his chair. Lancelot examined him closely. Although his face was a mask, his eyes gave him away a bit. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking about, but if he had to take a guess, it was nothing pleasant. The knight took a deep breath.

“I… I cannot. Every time I try, there are nightmares,” he wrung his hands at the admission.

He’d been hurt in a way that no amount of magic could ever heal. Lancelot coaxed his hands into his own.

“I will stay with you. If it helps.”

The knight snorted: “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one,” he shot back.

“Alright, alright, mercy,” he raised his hands in submission.

Lancelot couldn’t help but soften. He pushed the cup of chamomile towards him.

“Drink up. I’ll take care of getting you out of that armor.”

***

As soon as Gawain’s head hit the pillow, he was lost to the world. It was not surprising, he had only slept a handful of hours in the last two weeks.

He is finally fast asleep and breathing with soft snores leaving him. If Lancelot didn’t think he could be more fond of the knight, he would have been wrong: seeing him soft and asleep makes him want to wrap him in a cocoon and never let anyone touch him again.

Lancelot kept his promise and remained in his tent to watch over him, keeping himself busy with a book he had borrowed from Pym. It was a collection of the memories of their people. While it was not always entertaining, it was certainly educational. Lancelot knew so little, anything he could glean was more knowledge than he could have dreamed of.

Gawain stirred and a small noise escaped him, grabbing his attention. He was sprawled on the bed, the sheets and furs half falling off, and his legs twitched as if he were in pain.

“Gawain?” Lancelot whispered tentatively.

The knight’s breath came in rapid panicked succession, heaving whimpers.

He moved to kneel at the side of his bed. The Skyman’s eyes were moving extremely fast under his eyelids.

“Gawain,” Lancelot tried again.

“Please,’ the other man laboured, “don’t hurt me anymore.”

The plea broke the Ashman’s heart. As gently as he could, he placed a hand on his lover’s shoulder.

The man shot up, a knife seemingly appearing out of nowhere and rapidly making its way to Lancelot’s throat.

With his quick reflexes, Lancelot caught his wrist, the knife kicking him slightly. The knight was dazed and panting. Slow tears made their way down his face.

“Gawain,” he placed a hand on his face and cooed, “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Slow realisation crept over Gawain’s furrowed brow and the knife crashed to the floor. He grabbed his hair and his face as a poorly concealed sob racked his entire body.

Lancelot sat on the bed next to him and coaxed his knight into his arms, as reassuring as he knew how. 

“The Kitchens again?”

Gawain nodded, his breathing evening out.

“I’m sorry, my love. If I could go back and never bring you there, I would.”

“I know,” came the muffled voice of the man nestled against his chest. “I do not blame you. You did not mean for what happened to me.”

He looked up at Lancelot: “I’m fine, my love, still breathing and I still have fight in me.”

Lancelot is weak to it, weak to the way Gawain pulls at his need to protect. Weak with the way their bodies press and rock gently enough to feel comforting and safe. Weak to the way Gawain does not blame him for what he did and yet he still mumbles an apology against his soft hair even though he knows there should be no forgiveness for him. 

He threaded his calloused fingers through the burned earth brown locks while placing kisses anywhere he could reach while easing Gawain back into a semblance of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	4. To Give Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: a bit of gore
> 
> Lancelot and Gawain are on the battlefield after a new Paladin attack. Things do NOT go well.

_ Damn the world! _

_ And damn you too! _

_ Damn anyone who ever asked anything of him. Damn everyone who ever took anything from him. Including me. Damn anyone who ever prayed to whatever deity with his name on their lips.  _

_ You know that he will give them everything until there is nothing left of him, but the feel of his hand on my shoulder. You know that he will bear the world on his shoulders until he collapses and he is crushed by all of it. _

_ Why him? _

***

Everything was burning around him. The trees, the caravans they had abandoned. The corpses.

The open field was burning and for the first time in his life, fire had not been his friend.

Gripping his sword with the energy of desperation, he looked around himself to assess the damage. Piles of red paladins laid at Goliath's feet, dead or dying, and as many Fey if not more.

At least, he thought, they would have given the others time to run as far away as their legs could carry them.

To his horror, he saw the Green Knight in the distance, covered in blood and frozen as a huge Trinity guard took a swing of his mallet.

"Gawain!" shouted Lancelot. He pressed hard into Goliath’s flanks, prompting him into a gallop, and swung his bow loose.

As fast as he and his horse were, it was not fast enough. The blow landed heavily against the Skyman’s chest, sending him flying to the ground. The Trinity guard advanced on him, preparing his final blow, when Lancelot’s arrow found purchase in his neck, severing his spinal cord.

It is only then that the Ashman noticed the small figure clad in black with the unmistakable mask, a thin sword in their hand, swinging for Goliath’s legs.

It was much, much too late.

Goliath neighed in agony and fell forward, bringing Lancelot down with him, landing heavily on his owner only a few paces away from Gawain.

After recovering his breath, Lancelot let out a pained yelp. He was on his stomach and both his legs were pinned under his horse who was breathing heavily, but couldn’t move. 

As he did his best to regain a measure of control over his body, a pair of boots appeared in his line of vision. A familiar scent filled his nostrils - incense, the edge of winter, and marigold*. He couldn’t quite place it.

He looked up, his mouth spread in a thin snarl, the eyeless mask looming over him.

“Ah finally,” came a muffled feminine voice, “We meet again, traitor.”

A female Trinity guard? That was unheard of. He couldn’t find it in him to really care, he had more pressing matters. He glanced to the side to see Gawain, still lying on the ground, his helmet lying beside him. He couldn’t guess how badly he was hurt, but the knight was still breathing.

The Trinity guard knelt outside his reach. “And yes, the famous Green Knight! Dead and then resurrected. I’ll have to do something about that,” she said to herself, “The Lord has truly blessed my path on this day!”

“You’ll have to kill me before I let you touch him,” he rasped, spitting up blood as he tried to wriggle free.

At that, she reached up and ceremoniously took her mask off, exposing the mere face of a child. A child Lancelot had once met, the familiar scent now making perfect sense. Iris, he recalled, from the Yvoire Abbey. 

She looked him over, a delighted smile on her girlish features. “Oh I fully intend to, you disgrace. But I do believe you deserve a little show before you meet your Maker.”

She took out the small knife out of her belt and rose in Gawain’s direction. Lancelot thrashed furiously against the weight of Goliath. She gripped Gawain by the hair and yanked him up with more strength than her physique would let you assume. The man was barely holding on to consciousness. She looked Lancelot straight in the eye. “What I do, I do for your salvation, fey scum.” 

She meticulously drove her knife under Gawain’s eyelid and carved his eye out.

“NO!,” shouted Lancelot, desperately trying to move the impossible weight of the huge beast, trying to wrench his surely broken legs out. The pain didn’t matter as long as he could get to Gawain, to shield him with his own body. 

His horse, his best friend of years, was bleeding out on top of him, and his lover, the first person who had truly seen him in this godforsaken world was about to die at the hands of an angry child.

_ A child _ , Lancelot’s mind screamed. She was entirely too familiar, her actions were entirely too familiar. He forced the images of the mill out of his head; of the Tusk man, Gawain’s friend, he had tortured to strong arm the knight into giving himself up. How many times had he taken similar actions before the time he was this girl’s age? How long had it taken for him to be numb to the pain of others? Too short of a time.

“Please,” he pleaded, “ _Please_ _stop_ , Iris!”

The girl tilted her head to the side. “Ah! You remember me. Good.”

Lancelot finally found purchase on the ground and heaved himself a little closer, hissing away the pain that shot through his muscles.

“Yes, I remember you. And I know you better than you think.”

Iris did not move an inch, her face as impassive as her mask.

“We were both raised by the Church. We were both taught that cruelty and pain are what our Lord demands, the key to salvation. It’s a lie.” 

Her armed hand slowly dropped to her side, her brows furrowing.

“We follow the same deity and we have done terrible things in His name,” he continued, emboldened by the aggression slowly leaving her. “Yet, we were told a lie. They  _ lied _ to you, Iris. It is not hate our Lord requires, but love. Leave them as I did. We can protect you, take care of you. No child should have to be part of a war.”

She let go of Gawain, the man slumping back to the ground with a thud. A few strides after, she threw herself to the ground before Lancelot, who had finally been able to free himself. Her face was strewn with tears. He gently raised his hand and wiped them off. To his surprise, she wrapped him into a tight hug, which he reciprocated.

His head was swimming, but a small part of his instincts still alerted him that something was wrong. It was again, much too late for him to react, as the knife lodged itself between his ribs. He shuddered with new pain - his body wouldn’t be able to take much more before it went into shock - but he did not give her the satisfaction of making a sound.

Against him, Iris gave a small huff of satisfaction. “You really thought that was going to work?  _ Love _ ,” she cackled, “You’ve gone soft, monk.”

Lancelot should have taken this opportunity to kill her. It would have been so easy: she was so close and she could do so much more damage to all the people he had come to love. But he couldn’t do it. He didn’t hurt children.

He began praying, his last hour having finally come for him. He only wished he could have saved Gawain. Or kissed him one last time.

At that precise moment, an arrow whistled its way into the girl’s shoulder, wiping the smugness straight off her face.

She let go of Lancelot in favour of spinning around and facing her new enemy. Lancelot fell to the ground. He craned his neck to see Percival - how did that boy find a way to save him every single time? - shooting another arrow straight through Iris’ knee. She screamed with rage as she landed on the ground.

“You,” said Percival, his eyes filled with hatred. He knocked a new arrow in place.

“Percival…” Lancelot managed, “Stop.”

Percival fumed in place. “She hurt you, she hurt the Green Knight. She’s hurt so many other Feys. She has to pay.”

Iris gave him a gritted teeth smile and spat at his feet.

“Don’t -” he choked, “Don’t give her the satisfaction. Don’t become like her. Don’t become like me...”

With a huff of frustration, Percival obeyed and busied himself with tying the young Trinity Guard up and gagged her so she wouldn’t spout more poison.

Meanwhile, Lancelot crawled to Gawain, careful not to dislodge the knife in his side. When he got to him, he delicately lifted him to cradle his head on his ruined legs.

“Gawain? Say something, please. Are you still alive?”

The man grunted, but his now only eye strained to open. His face crisped in pain.

“Unfortunately,” he wheezed

“Don’t say that! I almost lost you, you idiot” hot tears ran down his face, “I couldn’t protect you… I failed you -” he stopped as a sob racked his body. Gawain placed a hand over his, trying to whisper soothing words into his chest. 

When he had left the Paladins, Lancelot had pledged his life to the Green Knight. And he had failed. Miserably. The proof in the once again broken man before him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I swear the next one will be infinitely softer.
> 
> Also, I will deal with Goliath in the next chapter.


End file.
